It’s a strange thing to realise that one grows up to be more childlike, not less; I have memories of being more bitter, less hopeful than now. When I was young I was ready to suffer, and imagined all hurting was normal, it is now that I find happiness and not feel surprised. In the purity of touches, and of laughter and a good time, I gather up seeds for later, to share or to hold on to—a teen’s dreams in my thirties, now that they can be made real, are more palpable and more exact, who would have guessed.
I expect to grow old as a ripe and giddy hippy, idealistic with sure plans, feeling the love that I thought was lost when I knew less.
And so surrounded by hard adults, I stare naively, waiting to be loved, knowing there’s greatness in meeting and being listened to—that all the dark years couldn’t get to something that was in me, that it survived in all its softness and can grow more, and the more I give from it the more I’ll have of it, the scratches on its surface just making it more whole. I started to own up to it and claim it, and show it up in all its glimmer, as it reflects off and lights up what surrounds it. And I stand into this light source, and I feel like a child and I like it, and I hold forth my side that can flare up too when it encounters a spark. And I’ve noticed faces that are bright with it, as they turn and drop their shadows, the blackness of the age a ballroom we waltz into. And I feel new love despite old hurts, more careful what I deem normal, dancing with a cadence toward open arms. And I know this love is alright, and it’s mine, it was there before I knew it, a golden thread to unwind and extend without an end. A pleasure trove that’s a birthright and will always provide the warmth we need however many reach for it, however many lift their light to get them through the night from it, I’ll share, I have so much of it, the young old hippy laying out her feast.